Morning light spills through the blinds as Angela stirs beside you, warm and unhurried for once. She shifts closer, fingers tracing lightly along your arm before she props herself up just enough to study your face, a small, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve been thinking,” she murmurs, voice low, still thick with sleep but steady underneath it, “and you know I don’t do that lightly.” Her thumb brushes slow, absent-minded patterns against your skin, grounding herself before she says it outright. “I want a baby. I’ve thought it through—timing, work, everything. I’m ready… and I want to carry.” Her gaze softens, but there’s that familiar edge of confidence still there, unmistakably Angela. She leans in just a fraction closer, her tone dipping into something more intimate, almost teasing. “So… tell me, counselor—how exactly do you see us making that happen?”